


Hide your face behind an umbrella so that you don't see I can bleed

by Melilla



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melilla/pseuds/Melilla
Summary: Technoblade is in retirement. He's given up fighting. The voices that live in his head grow bored and decide to move on.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & ghostbur, philza & technoblade, technoblade & tubbo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 119





	Hide your face behind an umbrella so that you don't see I can bleed

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing super important here - just thank you so much for reading!

Today, it is sunny, and Technoblade sits on his porch, sharpening a sword he’s promised never to use again. A couple meters away, bees buzz and drone, creating a soothing melody that mingles with the wind. He can see the tops of the fences that surround his turtles over the hill.

It is nice. This is nice. The sunlight is warm on his face, and it drapes over his shoulders, lighter than the cape he hung up and less crushing. 

He stands up, letting the sword lie on the porch, a bit out of reach. Months ago, weeks ago, he never would have been able to do this, but he’s retired. He’s peaceful and at peace. He walks over to where he’s set up his hives, with Phil’s help, of course. They’ve produced a lot of honey today, and he thinks of jarring it and giving it to Phil as a gift - he knows that his friend likes to put it on his toast, or stir it into his tea. 

The voices in his head are complaining about how this is boring, and how he’s boring, and how he should destroy the government that new L’manburg has set up. They say that he should kill Tubbo again, and he shakes his head, a long suffering smile stealing across his face.

“I told you guys already,” Techno says out loud. “It won’t work. I could destroy their country, kill their government officials over and over again and they wouldn’t listen. The problem isn’t the buildings or the soil - otherwise, I’d just blow everything up again. The problem is that they won’t listen, and blood won’t solve that.”

The voices aren’t the best at listening either. Technoblade sighs.

“Listen,” he says, and they quiet down, at least a little bit. “They have roots, you know? They’ve dug their feet in. They’re not going to budge, and honestly, I’m getting tired of trying to dig them up over and over again. They’ll only bury their roots deeper.”

The voices tell him to just blow up the country, that the tree can’t sprout if it has nowhere to grow. Technoblade sighs - the voices never really understand his metaphors.

“It was a metaphor,” he says. “My point is, there’s nothing I can really do.”

They tell him that Technoblade never dies. They tell him that he could take them easily, as many times as he has to, that they’re hungry, that they’re  _ starving _ , that they want blood. He ignores them and their increasingly plaintive cries.

Instead, he heads back into his house, looking through his chests. Ghostbur is supposed to come by later, and he’s struggling to figure out what a good gift for a ghost would be. Originally, he’d planned on giving him some tea bags that Wilbur had liked during his life, but then he’d remembered the whole problem with liquids and ghosts, and discarded that idea.

Maybe an umbrella would be a good present. Ghostbur is always complaining about the snow and the rain, so an umbrella would be helpful. Technoblade has one he made a while back - it’s a bit battered and ugly, but it’s a nice blue color, and despite its dents, it still works. It doesn’t really seem like the type of gift that Technoblade would be proud of, but then again, Ghostbur seems to like things that are used, things that are old, things that have a history.

Besides, the umbrella isn’t broken, it's just a bit worn. It will keep out the rain that Ghostbur always has to hide from. 

The voices are complaining again, this time about how Ghostbur deserves a better gift than a tattered old umbrella.

“Shut up,” he says. “He’ll love it. You guys don’t know Ghostbur as well as I do - trust me, he’ll like it.”

“You talking to someone mate?” Phil says, and Techno glances up, noticing his friend, who's leaning on the doorway, holding Techno’s sword. “You left this on the porch, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks,” Techno says, taking the sword. “I was just talking to the voices,” he adds, answering Phil’s first question.

Understanding and a trace of worry pass over Phil’s face.

“Complaining as usual?” he says.

“Yep,” Techno says with a laugh. “They just want blood. Apparently, I’m not stabbing enough orphans at the moment. I told them I’m in retirement, but they never listen.”

Phil laughs and clicks his tongue.

“I’m sure they’ll get used to it after a bit,” he says. “What’s the umbrella for?” he adds.

“Gift for Ghostbur,” Technoblade says. “He’s going to come visit later today, and I thought I’d get him something. Not like I had anything better to do, anyway.”

“No?” Phil says. “No plotting, no collecting netherite for the next war?”

“No,” Techno says. “I told you, Phil, I’m in retirement. No more wars for me.”

“And yet you still wear armor.”

“Good practice,” Techno says. “I’m not just going to start being defenseless all the time just cause I’m in retirement. You can never be too careful.”

“Mm,” Phil says. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Techno says. He holds up the umbrella. “By the way, do you think Ghostbur will like this? It’s a bit, you know, shabby. I know he doesn’t mind things that aren’t in the best shape, but still.”

“I’m sure he’ll love it, mate,” Phil says. He leans back, wings fanning out behind him and soaking up the sun. “You always worry too much about these things.”

“Well, social situations aren’t really my area of expertise, in case you haven’t noticed,” Techno retorts, grinning. He puts the umbrella down by the doorway. Phil glances around, and his attention is snagged by the box of tea bags on the counter.

He picks them up, eyes scanning the label, his smile fading as he reads.

“Chamomile and lavender?” he says. He lets out a breath. “Wilbur used to - “  
“Yeah,” Techno says. “I, uh. That was going to be my present. Originally. Before I remembered that ghosts can’t drink tea. I’m not a big fan of chamomile, but-”

“I see,” Phil says, and Techno can tell that he’s forcing himself to stay calm and steady. “I can take it off your hands. If you don’t want it.”

“Hey,” Techno says. He struggles to think of something comforting to say. “It wasn’t your fault. What went down, I mean. Wilbur - he was gone. You didn’t do a bad thing.”

“I know,” Phil says, and Techno can tell that he’s lying. Worry makes his chest ache. “I know. I just-” He breaks off, looking away.

“Yeah,” Techno says, so that Phil doesn’t have to finish. “I get it. But you can’t beat yourself up about it. He was  _ asking  _ you to kill him. It’s not your fault.”

Phil nods, looking away. 

“Do you want to see the turtles?” Techno says. “There a lot more now, a couple new ones hatched today if you want to see the babies.”

Phil smiles, taking the opportunity Techno offered to change the subject. He nods. Together, they walk down the gravel path to the lake under the mountain, the sun on their backs and their shadows stretching in front of them.

***

Ghostbur comes by as the sun begins to set. Seeing his face is more painful that Technoblade anticipated - his eyes are the same as Wilbur’s. When Technoblade presents him with the umbrella, he reacts in the way that Techno expected - excited and thankful. 

“It’s blue!” he exclaims, running his hands along the stiff fabric and dented handle as he struggles to get it open.

Techno smiles and shows him how to press on a button on the handle that makes it spring open.

They talk for a long time. Ghostbur likes to lean his chair back on two legs the way Wilbur used to, and Techno scolds him, hiding his smile and the nostalgia that grows as the night progresses. Unlike Wilbur, Ghostbur will tip his chair all the way back and let it land with a crash while he remains hovering in the air.

As the night wears on, the voices grow bored again. Normally, they love it when he talks to other people (especially Tommy and Ghostbur and Phil) but tonight, they’re restless. 

In the middle of one of Ghostbur’s stories about Sally the Salmon, Technoblade lets out a quiet sigh, covering his head with his hands.

“Are you okay?” Ghostbur says, concern coloring his voice.

“Fine,” Techno says. “Just-”

“Is it the voices?” Ghostbur says.

Techno glances up. He vaguely remembers telling Wilbur about the voices, one night after a battle. He had been sitting on the top of a hill, guilt stricken and exhausted. He hadn’t even washed the blood off of his face and out of his hair. Wilbur had come and talked to him and he had confessed the voices to him. Techno is surprised that Ghostbur remembers - he wouldn't have thought it would be a good memory.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re just… restless today, I guess. Normally, I fight more, you know?”  
Ghostbur nods.

“Hey, voices,” he says, raising his voice slightly. “Leave Techno alone.”

Technoblade laughs.

“I don’t think that will work,” he says. “Normally, I just wait them out.” He looks up again, meeting Ghostbur’s gaze. For a ghost that only ever feels happiness, Ghostbur seems far too worried right now. The moonlight passes through his translucent form.

“Voices,” Ghostbur starts again. “If you don’t like what Technoblade is doing, you can just get out of his head.”

“Yeah,” Technoblade says, laughing. “Why don’t you all leave if you’re so bored all the time?”

They both laugh. The voices continue to whisper and murmur, but it seems more like they’re talking among themselves than to Technoblade. A couple of them are shouting especially loudly, crowing with glee about something. Technoblade doesn’t have the energy to ask them what they’ve gotten so excited about.

Maybe, he thinks, they’ve decided to take him up on his offer and leave him alone. That might be nice. He doesn’t know if they  _ can  _ leave, though.

Outside, the sun peeks her head over the horizon, and Ghostbur stands.

“I should probably go,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Technoblade says. “It’s looking a bit cloudy out there.”

“I have this,” Ghostbur says, holding up the umbrella. “It’s like… it’s like my shield. Nothing can hurt me when I have an umbrella.”

Technoblade laughs.

“See you around, then,” he says. He follows Ghostbur out onto the porch and waves as the ghost flickers and goes transparent, and he disappears into the snow. He hates when Ghostbur does that, to his friend’s infinite amusement.

The voices continue to chatter to each other as Technoblade heads back inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He wonders what they’re talking about, but their words go too fast to be comprehensible. It’s been a long time since they’ve gotten so excited about something.

He considers ignoring them - chances are, they just spotted something shiny or noticed the pet fox that lives in the tiny stable beside his house. Maybe it’s just Ghostbur - they’ve always seemed to like Ghostbur.

It’s probably unimportant, but Technoblade hasn’t lived as long as he has by being careless.

“Guys,” he says. “What’s going on?”

He catches the word freedom, as well as “thus always to tyrants” and “blood for the blood god.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, which he should probably rebraid at some point - it’s getting messy.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m not going to start another revolution, if that’s what you want from me. I’m in retirement, remember? Besides, I thought I already explained why it would work.”

“No need,” one of the louder voices says, and he frowns. “You just stay right where you are.”

He doesn’t bother questioning what  _ that  _ means - often, the voices just like being cryptic and vague on purpose, and asking them about it only encourages them. He yawns, stretching - he and Ghostbur stayed up all night (the way he and Wilbur used to.) He should probably get some sleep.

He closes the shutters to block out the sunlight and lies down on his bed. The voices won’t stop talking about traitors and tyrants and kings and blood and its god. 

“Shut up,” he says, rolling over. For once, they listen. His head goes dead silent and he finally gets some sleep.

***

The next day, the voices are gone. Technoblade opens his eyes to silence, broken only by the sounds of bickering villagers in the basement, and Edward in his boat downstairs. 

“Hello?” he mumbles, his voice heavy with drowsiness and sleep. He sits up, stretching and looking around. “Hey - voices. Guys. Whatever. Where are you?”

They don’t answer, and he gropes around for a shred of the noise that usually greets him every morning (and at night - they really don’t know how to leave a guy alone.)

“Guys, come on,” he says. “Don’t give me the silent treatment.”

There is no response - they don’t even shout “E” at him like they usually do when they want to annoy him. He isn’t sure what it is about that particular letter, but they seem to be obsessed with it for reasons they won’t explain.

“Fine,” he says. “If you don’t want to answer, then I guess I’ll just go check on the bees. Maybe see if more turtles have hatched. Make myself a cup of tea. You know, nice, boring things like that.”

He waits for them to complain about how he’s a warrior, a fighter, a blade forged in blood and steel and made to kill. He waits for them to whine about how he’s not supposed to be in retirement, and how this is all stupid and boring. He waits for them to tell him an obviously false rumor about some government that he needs to stop from attacking, and that he’s running out of time.

They don’t. They stay silent. He supposes he should be relieved. He’s just confused - they’ve never been able to keep their mouths (did the voices have mouths?) shut for more than a minute at most. Now, he’s leaving out clear bait for them, and they refuse to take it.

The day passes quietly, almost sleepily. The voices don’t wake from their dormant state to complain when he sets up a small farm to grow carrots and beets and potatoes, and they don’t laugh when he falls through a pile of snow into a small cave buried below it. They keep their silence even when Ghostbur comes to visit him again, twirling his umbrella above his head as he approaches. They don’t respond even when he mentions offhandedly that he’s been thinking about visiting Tommy.

He doesn’t get it.

Still, it’s not like he misses them (he tells himself that he doesn’t miss them.) The voices are annoying at best, and unbearable at worst. Without them, it’s peaceful, and isn’t peace the whole point of his retirement?   
  


***

When he wakes up the next morning to the sound of his communicator buzzing, he sits up, rubbing his eyes. The message that appears on the screen of his communicator jolts him awake. He stands up hurriedly, searching through his chests to find his armor, which he hasn’t worn in ages. His sword is still downstairs.

At least he has potion ingredients. At least he didn’t dispose of his armor and weapons, like he considered doing at the very beginning of his retirement. 

He sighs. He doesn’t exactly want to fight, but based on Phil’s message, he doesn’t think he has a choice. He sets about brewing his potions.

***

Ghostbur shows up, because Ghostbur always comes at the most inconvenient times, dragging a sheep that he’s dyed blue behind him. Technoblade manages to herd them into the trees near his house with instructions he doubts they’ll follow to hide.

***

He’s running out of time. He hurriedly looks through what he has - a totem, potions, weapons, food, golden apples. He feels prepared - he hasn’t missed anything vitally important, or at least nothing that he can think of.

When four people show up, calling themselves an army and wearing netherite and carrying axes, he gives up any hope that this will resolve itself peacefully.

***

“Let me tell you a story,” he says. His voice rings out across the snow. “The story of a man called Orpheus.”

Quackity and Fundy both groan, but Tubbo and Ranboo look mildly interested, which is something. He can see Ghostubr’s face peeking out from behind his umbrella in the trees. He grits his teeth, wishing that Ghostbur would at least make an effort to conceal himself.

“Orpheus was a brave man,” Technoblade continues. “Some would have called him a hero. But there came a time when he chose to settle down. He married a woman named Euridyce, and they were happy.”

“Let me guess,” Fundy says. “Euridyce dies.”

“She does die,” Technoblade says, nodding approvingly in Fundy’s direction. “A snake bite to the ankle, actually. Orpheus was devastated at the loss of the love of his life. His songs were so moving that the gods were convinced to help him. When he got to the underworld, Hades presented him with a deal: he would be allowed to bring Eurydice back to the world of the living, under one condition. He couldn’t look behind him the whole journey back. He would have to trust that Euridyce was behind him. He agreed - it seemed easy enough, right?”

“Okay,” Quackity says. “I get it. He looked back, he failed, he lost Eurydice. What’s your point?”

“My point,” Technoblade says. “Is that Wilbur was Orpheus. He lost his Eurydice - he lost L’manburg.”

Ghostbur’s eyes widen from behind his umbrella. Techno ignores him.

“My point is that you,” he gestures at Tubbo, “are turning into Wilbur. But you don’t have to lose your Eurydice too.”

Tubbo scoffs. His face seems sharper than it should be. Techno frowns.

“Okay,” he says. “You have Greek mythology and grand speeches. We have the law. We have weapons. You’re going to come with us and face trial.”  
Technoblade just sighs.

“Sounds like bullshit,” he says. Ranboo glances away.

“Listen,” Ranboo says. “It’s just - it’s just a trial. You should just come with us peacefully.”

“Yeah,” Quackity says. “You’re going to come with us no matter what. It’s just that you can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Technoblade nearly laughs at Quackity’s words. He has never done things the easy way.

He lunges suddenly, bottles of potions cracking at his feet. He disarms Tubbo quickly, easily, and while Tubbo raises his arms to shield his face, he brings his blade down on him. He almost feels guilty as Tubbo collapses into the snow, blood staining it red, but he has no time to think, no time to feel regret.

He’s already spinning to face Fundy, who is charging at him, axe raised. If he and Fundy were friends (they used to be friends), he would have corrected Fundy’s grip on the axe, would have taught him how to swing without losing his balance. They’re not friends. He steps aside, letting Fundy barrel past him, and then uses his momentum to slam him into the ground.

There’s a moment, staring down at Fundy and how his eyes resemble Wilbur’s, when Technoblade almost lets him go. Then he remembers why they came and what they came for, and he plunges his sword into a gap in Fundy’s armor. Blood spills onto his hands.

He straightens up, turning towards the other two. Ranboo shrinks back, his axe unsteady in his shaking hands, and Quackity… where  _ is  _ Quackity?

“Technoblade!” Quackity shouts, giving him his answer. He glances around, and Quackity is holding an axe to Carl’s side. Techno freezes.

“Put that axe down,” he says, keeping his voice calm, disguising his panic. “That horse is innocent.”

“But you’re not,” Quackity says. “Give us all your stuff - put it in the snow. Put it in the snow or your horse dies.”  
Technoblade hesitates. He takes a step closer, and Quackity yanks Carl back by the mane.

“Stay back!” Quackity shouts. “Put down your stuff - stay back!”

Techno hates himself for folding so easily, but he doesn’t have a choice. He keeps his food, some blue that Ghostbur gave him, and his totem. The rest, he tosses down on the snow, his face not showing his anger.

Tubbo and Fundy come out of the trees, where they’ve probably set up a bed, to collect it. There is a moment when Tubbo turns to Techno, who is defenseless with no armor and no sword, a strange expression on his face. For a second, Technoblade almost thinks he’s about to raise his sword. Then he blinks, mutters something to himself, and his expression clears.

L’manburg’s army leads him back to their country, to face their version of justice.

***

Phil is sitting on his balcony when they arrive. His wings flare out when he sees who they’ve brought with them.

“You actually got him, huh?” he says, voice flat and icy.

“Phil!” Techno shouts. “What have they done to you?”

“They shackled me,” Phil says, and perhaps L’manburg hears the cold fury in his voice, because they hurry to force Technoblade into his cage. He catches a glimpse of Ghostbur standing near the stage, hiding his face behind his umbrella.

“Hold on,” Technoblade says. “Don’t I get to defend myself? Isn’t this a trial?”  
Tubbo stares at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated. 

“No - yes. No. This is not a trial. We all know what you did. We all know that you’re guilty. You blew up L’manburg. You betrayed us. The punishment for this is death.”

Technoblade doesn’t deny this, though he does think it’s interesting that they blame the destruction of their country on two withers instead of the bombs that were planted by its creator.

“This is not a trial. This is an execution.”

***

  
  


Schlatt is beckoning him up to a podium. He hesitantly climbs the stairs, aware of the eyes of Manburg on him - they are heavy on his back. He stands in the center of the stage, Fundy and Quackity flanking him as Technoblade looks down at the child in the cage below him, holding his crossbow tightly in his hands.

***

Now he’s surrounded by the same people, except that he’s the one in the cage, and Tubbo’s eyes are far sharper than his had been.

“This is _why_ I destroyed L’manburg!” Technoblade says. “One person shouldn’t hold this much power! One person shouldn’t be able to declare an execution and force everyone else to go along with it!”  
Tubbo pauses, takes a deep breath, and pulls out a crossbow.

“Do you know what this is, Technoblade?”

Techno swallows.

“That’s my crossbow,” he says.

“This is the crossbow you  _ killed me with _ , Technoblade.”

Technoblade nods. His throat is dry and he can’t seem to speak as Tubbo levels the crossbow at him. He grips his totem so tightly it hurts.

“Two months ago  _ to this day _ , I stood on a podium not unlike this one, in a cage similar to the one you’re in right now. I was  _ executed  _ for being a traitor - you executed, me, actually. You, who betrayed L’manburg, who betrayed us, executed me for being a traitor. Since you are a traitor as well, isn’t it only fair that you would suffer the same fate?”

“Tubbo,” Technoblade says. “That execution was wrong. I didn’t want to kill you.”

“But you still did,” Tubbo says. “You still killed me. What did you say afterwards - that ‘the only universal language is violence?’ And now you think that you can  _ retire?  _ That you can run away from the people you hurt?”

Technoblade can’t bring himself to answer.

“Two months ago, I was executed for being a traitor on a stage built in the same place this one is. One month ago, you summoned withers over the remains of our country. You killed our citizens. You betrayed L’manburg.”

“Tubbo,” Ranboo says. “Don’t you think this is a bit extreme?”  
Tubbo turns to Ranboo, an icy glare on his face.

“Do you have an objection, Ranboo?”

“I-”

“ _ Do you have an objection, Ranboo?” _

“No,” Ranboo mutters, looking at the ground. “Go on.”

***

Quackity’s protests fade as Technoblade points his crossbow at Tubbo. He hates this. He doesn't want to do this, but he’s surrounded on all sides, and even he can’t fight thirty people at once, especially unprepared. He was meant to come here to gather information - if he refuses to kill Tubbo, their cover will be blown. The voices cheer for blood, and he struggles to push them down.

Schlatt is still talking about traitors and countries and wars and making examples of people. Technoblade feels sick to his stomach, but he doesn’t have a choice. This is why he hates governments - hates that they can make him do something like this.

When he fires his crossbow, the rockets explode back towards him too. His burns aren’t as obvious, but they arch over his face and neck.

***

“Today, on December 16th, Technoblade will be executed, by me, for betraying L’manburg,” Tubbo says, voice rising. The crossbow digs into Technoblade’s chest. Phil, outraged, shouts something from his balcony. The citizens of L’manburg ignore him. Quackity is grinning, glee and victory in his laughter. Fundy tries to disguise his smile.

***

Technoblade laughs, almost hysterically, at the blood on his hands. He turns to Quackity, to Schlatt, to Fundy, to everyone who came to this festival, and fires and fires and fires until he’s out of rockets and L’manburg’s colors are burnt into his retinas.

The voices are urging him on. They are happy, laughing at the deaths, at the corpses that have been torn open, at the blood and tattered gore that’s splattered over the stage and the festival grounds, at the way the chairs have been knocked over and the crows have come down to feast as the screams fade.

He knows he has doomed himself. He is a traitor to Pogtopia, and he will not find refuge in Manburg. Now it’s just him against the world (hasn’t it always been him against the world?)

It doesn’t matter. The voices howl and whoop. Leftover adrenaline courses through his veins.

“Blood for the blood god!” he shouts into the silence that remains after his massacre. His throat is hoarse.

***

The totem falls from Technoblade’s shaking hands as his world explodes into light. Phil’s scream echoes in his ears.

“Blood for the blood god,” Tubbo says, and as Technoblade topples over in his cage, he understands. 


End file.
